Theory of Learned Helplessness
by hadaka
Summary: If it was a test, you failed it.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Warning:** This is **yaoi**.

**Summary:** If it was a test, you failed it.

**A/N:** I HAVE NO DISCIPLINE. Obviously.

There might be some massive OOC. I sort of don't remember the last fifty or so chapters of Eyesh.

**Edited:** Oops. Sorry. Took a minute to realize how effed up the formatting was.

* * *

It happened like this.

"We're breaking up," said Hiruma.

"Oh," said Sena. He waited a minute, and then, when he didn't throw up, continued, "Can I ask why?"

"Eh," said Hiruma. His eyes slid to one side and one index finger tapped the M16 he was carrying. "I'm bored."

"Oh," repeated Sena. He was looking at the ground at this point, so he didn't know if Hiruma was looking at him or not, or what his expression was. "I see."

Then Sena left. He didn't look back.

He figured he imagined the small, pained noise, as if someone had just stifled something in the back of his throat. Or that it was him.

That was it.

- - - - -

Then the other thing happened.

"Come to Notre Dame."

"I really can't afford it."

"Idiot. I don't recall saying anything about money."

"Clifford-san—"

"Clifford."

"Clifford...I don't think—"

"What have you got to lose now?"

A heart-stopping few seconds, there, because Sena couldn't function under the idea that Clifford _knew_.

"Sena?"

Except, he was kind of right. What _did_ Sena have to lose?

"...Patrick would like to see you too."

Panther knew all about enduring painful things. Maybe he could teach Sena.

"OK."

And if Clifford had sounded like he'd meant to say someone else's name—that was probably just the bad reception.

It was that easy.

- - - - -

Which led to the next part.

"Notre Dame?" said Monta, looking blank. "For...your second year?"

"Yeah," said Sena.

The looks on their faces. Monta, Jyuumonji, Toganou, Kuroki, Suzuna, all of them. Just sitting there looking at him.

"Congratulations," said Suzuna. But her tone was forced, and no one else repeated it.

"I'm glad for you, Sena," said Monta, staring at the table. "I really am! I swear! It's just—" His jaw worked. "It's just..."

Jyuumonji got up from the table, then, and left. Toganou and Kuroki followed close behind. Monta and Suzuna wouldn't look at him.

It turned out to be Komusubi who put his hand briefly on Sena's arm and said, under his breath, "Painful." For once in his life, Sena understood, and he wondered at the fact that it was Komusubi, of all people, who'd seen it.

There wasn't much more than that to say.

- - - - -

And, this.

"Fucking brat," said Hiruma.

Sena concentrated on the top button of Hiruma's coat.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Such anger.

Then, suddenly, all the tension just drained out of Sena's body. He felt almost lightheaded, dizzy from lack of fear.

Hiruma glared at him. "I asked you—"

Sena could have laughed in Hiruma's face. _He can't hurt me any worse than he already has._

Instead, he walked right by Hiruma. Who tried to grab his arm, and Sena didn't even resist—just slid his arm through Hiruma's grip as if he were made of water.

It put all the spins and jukes and fakes he'd ever made on the field to shame.

Sena didn't look back.

- - - - -

Finally—

When Sena got to the airport the morning of his flight, he was a little shocked to see that Musashi had shown up.

He was less shocked that _only_ Musashi had shown up.

"Musashi-san."

"Sena."

So awkward. Sena stood there, holding his one carry-on, trying not to look at Musashi with his hands in his coat looking down at him.

He'd cut the mohawk.

"He made a mistake," said Musashi.

"No," said Sena. "He was very clear about wanting to break up."

"That's not what I meant."

Sena didn't care. He hadn't slept the night before and his flight was boarding. "Thank you for coming, Musashi-san."

"You don't understand what happened."

"Actually," said Sena, lifting his head and meeting, for the first time, Musashi's eyes, "I think that, for the first time in a long while, I really do."

Musashi's mouth opened slightly, as if he'd speak, but didn't. He looked so surprised.

"Good-bye, Musashi-san," said Sena, and walked on.

"You're making a mistake," called Musashi's voice.

Sena didn't look back. And he didn't really care.

- - - - -

And then, because Sena was still very naive about how things worked—

"Huh," said Don. "You got shorter."

Sena tried to close his mouth. "You—"

The smile that parted Don's lips and bared his teeth was almost as frightening as the hand he held out to Sena.

- - - - -

By that time, it was too late.

Sena stayed at Notre Dame. After a year, he thought it pointless to go back to Deimon, where he wouldn't even be able to play, and the athletics program director had basically clung to his knees.

But what really decided it for him was when Don said, "No, you're staying here."

Even Clifford had looked surprised at the finality of that sentence.

When Sena graduated, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world for Clifford to tell him, "Pack up. You're going to freshman orientation at Notre Dame."

_"Finally,"_ said Panther. He put his elbow on Sena's head. "Come on, frosh. _Domer coming through!"_

Just before registering, Sena managed to pull Clifford to one side and whisper, "I don't—I don't know the fees—" Or even if his parents could afford them.

Clifford gave him a look that combined disbelief, contempt, and pity. "You don't have a clue, do you?"

Sena opened his mouth to ask what that meant, except that was when a hand took his shoulder in a grip that was almost painful.

"About time," said Don.

And for some strange reason, all Sena could think about was how no one from Japan wrote to him anymore except Mamo-nee and his parents, and even they only ever talked about the weather.

No one ever mentioned how _he_ was doing.

Probably well.

- - - - -

The Four Horsemen of Notre Dame, the newspapers called them.

Sena had always thought that kind of thing only happened on TV and in movies. But the photos he saw in the newspaper, on the TV, and on the Internet were real—pictures of the four of them on the field, legs apart, arms folded, posing casually against the lights. It was as if the Division 1 football world couldn't _wait_ to throw every award in the game at them, piling them up at Don's feet as if in tribute to a god.

Don seemed barely to notice any of it.

Six months after Sena had officially become a Domer, Don said to him, very casually, "You've gotten taller."

It was true. Sena was almost up to Clifford's ear now, nearly at Panther's shoulder. His legs had lengthened and his waist had narrowed. His hair was long because he kept forgetting to get it cut.

"Looks good," said Don.

After three years, Sena was used to hearing the things Don didn't say.

Three months after that, one night, when he was as close to drunk as he ever got, Don murmured in Sena's ear, "From the Japanese, I learned patience. And tenacity."

That, for some reason, made Sena—feel his heart beating.

Later, when Don was stretched out asleep and his arm was a weight over Sena's back, Sena thought.

About that day, four years ago, when Hiruma had told him, _We're breaking up._

About the glance Hiruma had flashed at him, one both expectant and hopeful, which Sena then had mistaken for pity.

About the _Oh_ that had left Sena's own mouth, and how it had been all he could think of to say before he simply left.

About Musashi, and his _You don't understand what happened._

About what disappointment felt like when it tried to grab your arm.

"You idiot," Sena whispered in Japanese. "You stupid, stupid bastard. You had to do it. You just _had_ to test it. You just _had_ to see how far you could push me. You couldn't just trust me. You..."

_You idiot,_ said a small voice inside. _Why didn't you go after him? Why didn't you do anything? Why did you just let it happen? If it was a test, you failed it, you fucking brat._

Four years and a whole other life later and it was so, so _stupid_.

"Sena?"

Sena was pulled onto his back, the hand on his shoulder completely unstoppable. He closed his eyes and covered them with an arm.

"Haaa."

That hand briefly touched Sena's tear-stained face, almost perfunctorily tender. Then Sena's leg was being lifted onto a hard, muscled hip.

"Too late for anything now. You'll get over it."

Sena—gasped, dragging his nails against the sheets. He struggled a little, very uselessly.

_Cute,_ was breathed against his neck.

He was stupid enough to wonder—just for a second—how Don knew.

But it didn't matter. It wasn't important.

Nothing had been important for a very, very long while.

* * *

**A/N:** Someone write more DonxSena. I will give you..._anything_ (involving Sena).


End file.
